Axioms unproven.

an axiom= something one is prepared to accept as true without proof. x=y, y=z so x=z
Cardinal numbers=numbers that fit into perfect sets. There will always be more numbers than 'natural' numbers (1,2,3,4), so the sets have varying levels of infiniteness, graded according to a Godelian system.

Here is an axiomatic truth:

I adore you, HC.

Here's another:

I need to be touched.

And another:

There are people that wish to touch me.

There are people whose touch I appreciate.

They are not you.

I would appreciate your touch significantly more.

You make me laugh so much, and you are so beautiful.

I feel as though you and I divide into each other, unreal numbers that don't exist. I play with the edges of mathematical theorems and wish for your calm eyes.

I feel as though you and I would be together for always, because I am proud of you. You seem so honest, so  shy, sometimes, and so vulnerable, and I know that you would probably be good for me. You don't smoke, you're excellent at maths, you make me laugh and we could go biking and hiking and fall into each other's arms.

I send you poems with bright wings, burning bright, the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach when feeling out of sight. I've sent it now, there's no way to retract it, because I don't know how to fix it with an algorithm and I can't stop pouring myself out via my keyboard each time I think of you.

A sonnet that doesn't rhyme.

I save all of my best secrets for you.
For your slender arms, your eyes that meet mine
And then flick away, as if ashamed. As
If you know that I cannot stop myself
Gazing at you. I parcel out all of
My secrets, spooling them through the weeks, shot
Through with your algorithms. How is it
That you can't meet my eye and yet I apply
The axioms and find that I might well
Have loved before, just as I do now, but
How this differentiates, over the
Lines of states, figures inked interlinking
You and I. The entirety of my
hidden places, my hope. For you. My best.

This was not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about the girl that's soft, but I don't think I'll be with her for very long. I think she will be a diversion, from my consternation as I can't have HC. I think she needs someone, and I do, and she is soft and kind. She was embarrassed that I was wearing a moustache, and I think she might embarrass me. I can't imagine introducing her to friends or family. I can imagine introducing HC. I can imagine being so proud of her that it wouldn't hurt as much, because she is so clever and witty and beautiful, and her voice is like newly sanded wood.

My Aunt is dying, as she has been for many years, and I want to ring her up to tell her that I am sorry that I am not there. I want to tell her that it is alright, that she can die if she wants to, and that she does not owe anybody anything. That I loved spending time with her when I was a child, when she was my playmate, with dark hair, and how I was fascinated by her chair and equipment, and how I used to like eating with her and playing. How I liked her being there, a friendly presence with cold hands and a mug of coffee.

How I am sorry that I did not see her as much as I should have in later years. I wonder, sometimes, what life would have been like if she'd never caught the disease. She'd have grown up as clever as my Father is, and I might have had an aunt with cousins like brothers and sisters. I might have had an aunt who wrote and acted, I might have had... but then, I would not have had my Mother, nor her friends. They met because of you, because Grandma needed Social Services and my other Grandma happened to be a social worker. You have changed me in many ways; you were my confidante when I was young, you made me laugh, you were proud of me. I have never felt shocked or frightened by disabled people because of you. I have got my Mother and my Father, opposite in so many ways, and yet bound together, because of you.

I'm sorry that my Father can't summon the correct emotions for you. I know that you always want more, and he can't give it. He spent too much time being shunted to one side for you as a child, or caring for you, or being compared to his cousin for not being good enough at being a clown, or being blustery. These are not worthwhile qualities, and besides, it is difficult to summon those emotions when your father's dead and your sister is disabled. It was hard for him. He has never said this and never discusses it. Like me, he is secretive, sometimes. He loves you, I think. I don't know what he feels about you, but he can't be the hearty sort of person that you seem to crave. He can't be jolly. He tries, for you, to make you happy, but it's not his style. He is far more than that. He will give you permission to go, if you need it. He is fighting for you to get what you want, which is death, and he would always fight for you, when he can. He wants to calm you, he does care, and I ache for him, and for you. I ache for what your relationship could have been if you'd been well. I ache because neither of you can understand the ways that the other loves, or you can, but you can't reciprocate. He once said something to the effect that he feels bad for feeling ashamed of you, or for not being able to be jovial. He can't help it. He was just a child, and he had so much to deal with. Asking him to subdue his feelings is simply cruel. He has got a right to feel the way he feels, and I feel angry that he is expected to feel a certain way, and sad that you can't have someone that feels that way about you that you care about as much as you care about him. He is more than jovial; he is stoic and brave, and kind. You would say that he is the best brother. I think you are right.

I want to say thank you. Go peacefully. I love you.

I want to give you something...

Though I don't know whether you want anything from me.

I want to write to you daily, in the same manner as I write to you here, only I can't.

I feel vaguely lonely, and if I could, I'd write:

You make me laugh like nobody else, and I want you to come to Paris for a week and sleep in my bed to see what happens.

I'm sorry for sending you an over involved analysis of that poem. I just desperately want to say everything to you, and I can't, so I ramble instead.

You're very beautiful. Did you know?

Come here, and we'll collapse laughing in my room, over cobblestones, anywhere. Then we'll decide.

I probably won't write any of this. I have received messages from other friends, but I'm always slightly disappointed to find that it's not you. Oh. I want to ask you a good question, one that makes you want to respond. How?

How did you get to be so beautiful?

I can imagine us arguing. About faith, about us, about where we live (because we are different species, you and I. Different kinds). I can imagine it being awful, us both drinking to much, especially me, and sleeping in separate rooms. What would happen afterwards?

I could imagine that we might ignore each other for the next few days, before eventually holding hands again.

I could imagine us collapsing into bed the following night in a flurry of sorries. I don't usually apologise, but I might to you.

I probably wouldn't. I'm stubborn, and I couldn't lie to you. I wouldn't apologise unless I really and truly wanted to, unless I felt sorry.

I might just pull myself back into your arms. Or you'd curl into mine.

I discussed (with the Supermodel) being with someone you're not utterly in love with. I can't do it. I'd rather be alone than feel that awful disjunct, bearable with a one-night stand but hideous when you know that you could feel something so wonderful with someone else. My friend said that she was happy tonight, that she wanted to marry her boyfriend and they'd spoken about it, but I wasn't convinced. There was something slightly off. I wouldn't ever want to settle for second best.

You're first.

You're not embarrassing.

I went out with the supermodel tonight, and a friend from University. I realised that I was occasionally embarrassed by my friend; she speaks too much, about herself, and is interested in trivial things. She's cultivated an American accent and is at culinary school. I am also interested in trivial things, but to a lesser extent, I think.

I was embarrassed by her, but at least I could discuss it with the Supermodel. We were never that close, the friend and I, at University, so the gap I felt didn't hurt too much. I felt glad, too- a lot of people that we knew at University that did my course have jobs in the media, or are still in education. I want to be educated further, but I don't necessarily want to go into marketing or something meaningless. As difficult and abysmal as my job can be, I like the fact that it's hard and that I'm helping people, in an indirect way. I am glad that I didn't move to London to start a media career that would have been absolutely useless to everyone on the planet. I regret that I didn't study a scientific subject, but I'm glad that I learned French and German, and that I'm in a vaguely medical field now.

The embarrassment I felt made me start thinking of you, and your mathematical genius. I don't know whether what you do helps people or not, but it is certainly difficult. You are lovely. You'd never talk about yourself incessantly (though I talk about myself incessantly when I'm with you), and you ask beautiful questions. You look shyly at the world, and it smiles back. You are a proof, of a theorem I'm not sure of, but there you are. I want to use mathematical language with you, I want to tap into your codes and embed myself in your system as you have embedded yourself in mine. I could be embarrassed about your faith, I suppose. I don't believe. I'd defend your right to believe, if it came to it. Nonetheless, you aren't an ardent defender yourself; when the other bridesmaids argued at our table, we kept steadfastly quiet. I didn't take one side, you didn't take the other. You know that I am a non-believer, an atheist. Or agnostic. Actually, agnostic is inaccurate, because I know what I believe. I believe that if there is a God, then it must be so remote and removed from us that it could not possibly care whether or not we build churches or honour it in whatever way possible. Surely an omnipotent, omniscient and omnibenevolent being would be free of human emotions such as pride or jealousy, which are (in any case) mentioned as sins? If God exists, why would it care whether or not we built cathedrals and churches to it, or came to worship it every Sunday? Religion, for me, is interesting as a cultural artefact. I like churches because I like the sentiment locked into their bricks; I like the routine, the way that someone has stood on these stones and sang the same songs for centuries. People have believed for centuries. I feel a link with my ancestors, as if we're not just floating alone. Christianity, to me, seems like a Roman or Greek religion; interesting stories, cultural mores and a way of uniting people. No more.

I would worry about discussing this with you. I don't want to hurt you or discover that there's something insurmountable between us. Defender of the faith... I'd defend your right to faith, even though I don't believe. My name, after all, is a derivative of 'Queen'. It amounts to the same thing at home. Fidei defensor.

I've faith in you, darling. Faith that you'd never do anything wrong, faith that you'd be kind. Faith that your arms are the loveliest in the world. She of the lovely arms. So, for you, I could be.

Fidei Defensor.

The Supermodel came tonight, and we talked about you. It's odd. Objectively, she's perfect- she's clever and fun, and very beautiful- yet I don't feel anything for her. I admire her, and, despite all odds (my jealousy over her astronomic IQ and general aptitude for life), she's become a great friend.

We spoke about the places that felt most like home, and she said she hadn't found one. I said that I hadn't really, either, but it's not true. Home is people, we decided. I spoke about you. I said you were funny and Christian and a mathematician. We don't talk about big subjects, you and I- we don't talk about religion, or marriage, thus there's no way for me to discuss the possibility of us. I tried to remember what we spoke about, but I can't.

I just remember
Laughing
Worrying that it wouldn't be the same
But it is.
The same
Twice
<0 .01p="" nbsp="" p="">Whatever that means, I've heard it's good news.

You can answer any numerical quibble
So I ask
To hear your response
Affirmative
I couldn't bear a no.
No.
No.

I can't remember you
Quantatively
But I remember how it felt
To be with you
Free as air
As if I'd taken something
Lifting off the ground
Wanting so badly to anchor myself
By holding your hand.
A funambulist
Between daring and not
As our skipping steps
Matched my heartbeat
Yet I breathed
Calm and deep
Aerial.